


Late Nights

by Vamillepudding



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-12-29 21:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: It's night in Camden Town, and Alfie considers some things.





	Late Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turquoisetumult](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turquoisetumult/gifts).



> So, I know this might not be completely what you envisioned, but I hope you enjoy it anyway !

It’s after midnight. A sort of all encompassing silence has settled over London, one that will hold until dawn, until the first servants start up their lords’ and ladies’ breakfast, until the milkmen go on their bikes and begin the deliveries, until the workaholics get ready for work.

No one is awake right now except whores and their clients, except criminals of all kind, except chronic insomniacs.

Except Alfie.

He sent his employees home hours ago. He does that sometimes, even though there is still work to be done. Sometimes – some nights – he needs the quiet. If people are around, Alfie talks to them. Has to talk; it’s inevitable, a burning need to fill every silence with words.

Back in school, he used to get in trouble for that sort of thing, but now he’s the boss and has every right to ramble as much as he wishes, to talk and talk until his throat hurts. Usually, he does. Tonight, though, tonight he keeps quiet, because there’s no one to talk to, because he sent his employees home hours ago, because he does that sometimes.

Alfie is not entirely alone, though. The dog is there, asleep at his feet. Alfie found it on his way home the other night. It was raining, and he’d been drenched to his very bones, and there it had been, huddled under some old boxes, shaking and miserable.

Alfie had picked it up and carried it all the way home. It doesn’t have a name yet; Alfie is working on that. Everyone, he reckons, deserves a name. Named his sister’s kid, didn’t he? Feels like fucking eons ago that he went for a visit and found the screaming new born all alone. He’d named him Goliath as a joke. Life is funny like that sometimes.

He named himself, too. Alfie Solomons – good name, that. Strong. It’s served him well ever since he adopted it, since he got it from that man in the alleyway. A dying man’s last words, and he wastes his breath on his name. Alfie likes to think his own last words will be more meaningful than that, but then again, with the way life tends to go, they are more likely to be less worth than a fucking penny.

Whatever they might be, he hopes Tommy Shelby will appreciate them. Alfie’s made his peace with the fact that it will be Tommy. Sooner rather than later, probably. Gotta be sooner, anyway, what with the cancer and all. When the doctor broke the news, he’d been fidgeting nervously, scared, like Alfie was an unstable sort of bloke who might grab that syringe over there and stab him to death for being the messenger.

Because Alfie _is_ an unstable sort of bloke, he’d let the doctor finish, then grabbed the syringe and stabbed him to death for being the messenger. A man’s reputation is a precarious thing, after all, and one must strive to live up to it at all times.

Some days, he thinks that his reputation is the only thing that keeps him going, but then again, there’s nothing new in that revelation. Darby Sabini used to do the same, and Luca Changretta, and Tommy Shelby, they all do the same, and so had Isaac Goldblum, the last Jew who ran Camden Town before Alfie took his empire away from him. That, too, seems like eons ago now. 

The likes of Tommy Shelby, they all think they’re the first, don’t they? The first to come up with a cunning plot to take out an enemy, the first to become a king in their respective trade, the first to cheat their way through life with nothing but a gun and a plan.

But they’re never the first, there’s always someone who’s already been there, done that, just like Alfie wasn’t the first either, and neither was Isaac Goldblum, because it all goes back to Adam and Eve themselves, the story the rabbi doesn’t tell you, the story where Eve made a pact with the snake and stabbed Adam in the back, only to be betrayed by the snake herself afterwards. That’s what it’d have been like, Alfie reckons, if He actually existed and all the stories were true.

He’s got that in common with Tommy Shelby, the blasphemy, the atheism, the absolute certain knowledge that he can do on earth as he pleases with no repercussions whatsoever, because after death, there comes nothing. Alfie believes in nothing but himself, and so does Tommy, Alfie knows. It’s right there in those blue eyes if you know where to look. An ordinary man might not see beyond the ruthlessness, but while Alfie may be many things, he’s certainly not ordinary.

He looks, and he sees, and he knows. Like recognises like, after all. 

The dog whines softly, circles Alfie’s desk a few times, then lies back down, its head a heavy weight on Alfie’s feet. Alfie pets it absently. He hasn’t had a dog in years. He hasn’t had anything in years, his brother estranged, his sister run off, his mum long dead. Perhaps it should bother him more, but he’s made a whole profession out of being lonely, and so far it’s been working well for him. But having a dog is nice, reminds him of the one he and his siblings used to have as kids. They’d called it Spot, he can’t remember why. 

This one is no Spot, he can tell. He might take it to the beach sometime. Dogs like that sort of thing, don’t they? Alfie could give everyone the day off and then drive to the coast. Might be nice, that. His employees would surely appreciate it. He wonders what will happen to them after he’s gone, but there’s no use in worrying over such trivial matters. He knows them, they’ll find their way. His bakery, too, will find its way, if only in being taken over by someone else. Maybe he’ll let Tommy have it, give the lad something to be smug about. 

The dog, though. He’ll have to find a home for the dog. And a name. Got to have a name, otherwise what’s the point of it all, if you’re just here, on this earth, and leave without even leaving a fucking name behind? 

Won’t be long now. Won’t be long at all. For now, he will keep working, dog by his side. And maybe in the morning, he’ll be able to stand the noise again, and make some of his own, and maybe he’ll send Tommy Shelby another telegram, ask him how he feels about dogs, just because he can, just because it doesn’t matter anymore. And maybe he’ll even think of a name. 

And, just _maybe_ , it will all work out. Just for once. 

Probably not, though. But that’s alright. Alfie lets his hand run through the dog’s fur, and turns a page of his report, and thinks of the sea. 

It’s after midnight, and Alfie is _awake_.

 


End file.
